as ever?" Malone asked hopefully.

"Exactly," Lord said. "But--if you do want background on the case--I'm
flying back to New York tonight. Look me up there, if you have a
chance. I'm afraid there's little information I can give you, but it's
always a pleasure to talk with you."

"Thanks," Malone said dully.

"Barrow Street," Lord said with a cheery wave of the briefcase.
"Number 69." He was gone. The Security Officer at the door, a young
man in the uniform of a page, opened it and peered out at Malone. The
FBI Agent nodded to him and the Security Officer announced in a firm,
loud voice: "Sir Kenneth Malone, of Her Majesty's Own FBI!"

The Throne Room was magnificent. The whole place had been done in
plastic and synthetic fibers to look like something out of the
Sixteenth Century. It was as garish, and as perfect, as a Hollywood
movie set--which wasn't surprising, since two stage designers had been
hired away from color-TV spectaculars to set it up. At the far end of
the room, past the rich hangings and the flaming chandeliers, was a
great golden throne, and on it Her Majesty was seated.

Lady Barbara Wilson, Her Majesty's personal nurse, was sitting on a
camp-chair arrangement nearby. She smiled slowly at Malone as he went
by, and Malone returned the smile with a good deal of interest. He
strode firmly down the long crimson carpet that stretched from the
doorway to the throne. At the steps leading up toward the dais that
held the Throne, his free hand went up and swept off the plumed hat.
He sank to one knee.

"Your Majesty," he said gravely.

The queen looked down on him. "Rise, Sir Kenneth," she said in a tone
of surprise. "We welcome your presence."

Malone got up off his knee and stood, his hat in his hand.

"What is your business with us?" Her Majesty asked.

Malone looked her full in the face for the first time. He realized
that her expression was rather puzzled and worried. She looked even
more confused than she had the last time he'd seen her.

He took a deep breath, wished for a cigar and plunged blindly ahead
into the toils of court etiquette.

"Your Majesty," he said, "I know full well that you are aware of the
thoughts that I have had concerning the case we have been working on.
I beg Your Majesty's pardon for having doubted Your Majesty's Royal
Word. Since my first doubts, of which I am sore ashamed, I have been
informed by Our Majesty's Royal Psychiatrist that my doubts were
ill-founded, and